


Shadows

by starrelia



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bisexual Male Character, Canon Divergence, Cisgender, Genderfluid, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 05:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6503383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrelia/pseuds/starrelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The visits begin at night. At first, Jack doesn’t think much of them even though, really, he should and it’s only when the stranger messes with the photo of his deceased wife that he starts to get angry about this; and if anyone is to ask Jack, he admits that he didn't expect to meet... <i>he doesn't know what</i>, actually, but they certainly are <i>something.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo.... TPS spoilers if you've never played the game all the way to the end. This is all through Jack's POV.

The visits begin at night.

At first, the person doesn’t make themselves known but Jack _knows_ they are there. He hears their footsteps as they move around his still mediocre flat, wearing heels or _something_ that clack all too loudly, as they visit and wander around his place. The alarms don’t go off and he can never find them on any security footage, so Jack shakes it off as night paranoia.

It’s when things get moved around does Jack think there’s something _off_ about everything. He wakes up to his boots in his room, right at his door, to his closet doors open and some clothes missing, and to the sight of his late wife’s photo placed face down.

He doesn’t know _who_ his night prowler is, visiting his flat and ruining shit, but Jack is bound to figure it out and he isn’t going to let anything stop him from trying to figure out what is going wrong. He’s definitely _not_ going to ask Mr. Tassiter for help, because that jackhole doesn’t know how to do jack shit and bosses people around like he does, so he just…

Decides to handle it on his own, because he _knows_ he can. He has handled everything else well enough on his own before, so what’s stopping him now? Because, whoever the hell it is that is stalking him stays the entire god damn time until Jack falls asleep, so this should be easy.

It should be the easiest god damn _thing_ in the entire freaking world. He’ll take ‘em to security, and they’ll be locked up and _away_ from Jack and he’ll be able to sleep easy knowing that the person stalking him is _gone_ and _locked up_ and **_not messing with the photos of his wife._**

But then, that person just disappears. They don’t visit again for a while, and Jack finds himself left with a relieving yet tense silence for the rest of his nights. Nothing is moved and everything is back to their old spots, and Jack is able to sleep slightly better for the next few days.

There’s the stress of work keeping him awake at night, and he goes to bed sometimes forgetting to turn the lights off and has to deal with the fact that he’s probably running up the damn _bills_ and he doesn’t have _time_ for any of this.

But that’s life, he supposes, and it’ll change _eventually._ He has it all planned out, and everything will change for the better, especially now that this phantom stalker is out of the way and no longer messing his home up.

* * *

One night, his stalker comes back. There are footsteps around his house again, and they are just wandering around and not even coming close to him. He’s not going to fall asleep any time soon so Jack forces himself up, stumbles through the darkness and paws at the walls until he’s opening his bedroom door and heading up to the kitchen where the footsteps are _loud_ and there is the clinking of glass.

When he gets to the kitchen, there’s no one there and three glasses of alcohol has been poured. He doesn’t know where the asshole got the alcohol from, but Jack isn’t one to complain as he heads over to the counters and begins to down the small amounts of alcohol poured.

Again, he considers going to someone about this—very briefly, _very, very briefly—_ before he remembers that everyone in Hyperion is a douchebag with their egos too big and their pride too high to listen to someone like him, a lowly programmer. They’ll just roll their eyes at him and wave his problems off with either faux politeness or arrogant rudeness, and Jack just doesn’t have the time to play John right now.

He has a daughter to take care of, himself to take care of, and dreams to chase and goals to make _reality._ Just because he has some shit for brains, shy asshole of a stalker doesn’t mean he has to drop everything to make sure that this fuck is out of his life.

There are some things he just has to grow used to, he supposes and seethes with quiet, bubbling anger, and Jack slams the glass down on the counter. If he’s not careful, he’s going to break the thing and that means more problems than he needs.

Jack ends up not doing anything about his visitor that continues to visit, pouring three glasses of alcohol every time they visit and then leave, and Jack has to wonder how they do it, exactly. Where is their exit? How do they get in? How are they never caught by the cameras or the sensors or whatever? Why do they just… visit?

Why is it always the night, too? Do they ever visit in the morning? What is their motive for all this dumb shit, anyway? Moving Jack’s stuff around, giving him drinks that never seem to end from a bottle that never exists and with a taste too soft and burning; what’s all this _for_ anyway?

He doubts he’s ever going to get an answer, so he just accepts the odd drink that never intoxicates him yet settles heavy in his stomach, and accepts that he probably has a new fixture in his life that he needs to ignore.

* * *

When those vault hunters are about to find the Destroyer, his visitor finally makes themselves known. Turns out, they don’t want to hide anymore, and Jack stumbles into his kitchen, shoulders sagging and feet dragging across the floor, and he’s greeted with the sight of someone sitting on his counter, leggy and tall and soft, tattoos spanning their entire left side.

They seem to glow in the darkness of his kitchen, the lights off and the person crosses their legs and places a golden hand on their knee. Their fingers stroke over the fabric of the sock on their legs, and they are holding a long glass of the drink that they have been giving to Jack for the past few nights with their flesh hand.

He can only exhale at the sight, eyes widening and he finds himself in complete, utter shock that his stalker is finally showing themselves. All of the sleep seems to escape him and he stands up straight, shoulders squared, and he stomps his way over to the person sitting on his counter. Just as he’s about to say something, the stranger presses the glass to his lips.

There is a quiet invitation in their mismatched eyes – wood and gold – and Jack can’t reject their drink. He takes the glass and downs whatever it is that the bastard is giving him, and heat spreads throughout his limbs and his _arteries_ feel like they are on fire and about to burst.

His eyes widen and he—

Actually ends up dropping the glass. It falls on the floor but doesn’t break, isn’t even _there_ anymore, and there is no spill there and his visitor is looking at him with a smile that reveals the upper row of teeth. The white _glows_ in the darkness and Jack is breathing heavily because the heat is spreading, spreading and gripping him tightly—

A hand rests on his shoulder and tugs him close to the visitor, and another one – heavier and less fleshy than the other one – grabs at the back of his head and tugs him close. “Relax,” the person says, voice soft and welcoming, and Jack is digging his fingers into curly hair, “relax, Jack, your boy’s here to make sure you relax.”

“Wh—what did you— _give me?_ ” Jack hisses out finally, and the stranger hums and runs their fingers through Jack’s messy hair. “ _Telllll mmmm… me!”_ Jack groans out, his body _heavy_ and pulsing, and the stranger just shushes him and continues to hold him close.

The silence that follows after the person is heavy and unwanted, and Jack is sagging against them eventually. He sinks and the person slides off the counter, follows Jack down as he turns into a pathetic mess onto the kitchen floor, and the person just hums and strokes Jack’s hair. Their fingers eventually come to press at the back of Jack’s neck, moving and exploring, and they briefly skirt over the port in his neck.

Blackness envelopes Jack’s vision after that and he later wakes up in the early morning on his bed, eyes staring up at the ceiling, and he feels _awfully well rested_ despite having slept for three hours.

The rest of the day is spent… well, actually, and he finds that he’s not as tired as he expects himself to be, and Jack doesn’t know what to think about that. The events of last night are fresh in his mind, and Jack wonders what the _hell_ that is all about.

* * *

His visitor comes back again. They are in the kitchen again, just leaning against the tiny kitchen archway with their arms crossing in front of them, gaze distant, and Jack looks at them curiously as he slowly approaches them. The visitor is in the same get-up as before, and Jack makes sure to take a more thorough look at them—

A large, absurd and thick jacket hides the view of what the visitor is wearing, acting almost like a giant dress with a frontal zipper and a missing left side, but Jack can tell that they are definitely wearing… thigh-high socks? He can’t tell because they disappear under the jacket with silver filigree.

In the darkness of his flat, the tattoos on the person’s body glow a gentle blue, serene and curious and Jack’s eyes widen—

“You’re a siren.” He says with a gasp and steps back, eyes widening as his mismatched eyes meet the other’s and the atmosphere grows slightly thick with tension. The person looks through him, their gaze looking… too serene and Jack wonders if he’s just imagining things, but eventually they pay attention to Jack.

They smile and stretch out their left arm, fingers covered in the blue tattoo, and Jack inhales deeply. “Yes,” they agree, voice thick with amusement, “yes I am, but… I definitely seem to go against _one_ of your facts about sirens, don’t I?” They sound slightly venomous when they say that and Jack raises his hands up in a calming gesture. “I’m not angry, don’t worry.” They say dismissively and they sound more… relaxed. “Does me being a siren bother you, Jack?”

He opts not to answer, raises an eyebrow instead and frowns, and the other person’s smile falters. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help it.” He takes a few steps back when the siren takes a few steps closer, and they immediately backpedal back to the archway. “I’m supposed to be the guy that makes you relax at night—you’re always so tense, Jack. I’m here to _help_ you, _don’t_ be that way.”

“My stalker wants to help me? _Please._ ” A snort escapes Jack before he can help himself, but the siren isn’t bothered by it. They—he?—shrug in response to Jack’s words. When he’s sure that the siren isn’t going to come any closer, Jack relaxes—

And he finds himself pressed against the archway, the siren digging their fingers into his arms and leaning closer than Jack _wants_ , but they gently exhale and run their fingers down the length of his arms and electricity seems to run through Jack.

Again, heat spreads throughout him and Jack is sinking and the siren is following afterwards, sitting on his lap and continuing to stroke with fingers that hum and buzz with electricity, make Jack arch and gasp and go completely limp.

Smiling like a shark, the siren seems to completely revel in the fact that Jack is going boneless like this. “There, like that, like that, easy, easy…” they soothe, fingers pressing into Jack’s hair now and massaging his scalp, and Jack’s world is _spinning_ as something spreads in his _head,_ rattles his _teeth_ —

“I’m a he, Jack.” The siren says before Jack falls unconscious and wakes again in his own bed, sheets thrown off of him and his body covered in sweat.

* * *

Even though he doesn’t know what else to expect, the siren comes to him again. They— _he_ is smiling at Jack when he approaches, sitting on the counter again with his legs crossed and his hands a fist on his knee. Their—his [damn it, Jack, _stop forgetting_ ] tattoos aren’t glowing right now, and he doesn’t have anything to offer to Jack this time.

He doesn’t say anything and Jack is awfully, awfully tense, because the vault hunters are going to get to the vault and he and Angel don’t know _what_ to expect. Treasure? _Actual_ treasure? Monsters? Aliens? _The hell_ are in vaults anyway? He doesn’t _shittin’ know_ and the realisation that he doesn’t _know_ hits him in the face like a bag of bricks.

Tassiter’s been drilling harder than usual lately, and Jack just _doesn’t want to deal with that shit._ He still needs to get Helios approved [and he _will,_ he _will, he will,_ because he _actually really needs to]_ and everything will be going up Jack.

Still doesn’t ease the tension in his gut at the idea that he’s opening up something unknown and foreign and potentially _life changing._ Maybe he’ll be able to get rich out of whatever is in the Vault of the Destroyer, but Jack isn’t too sure and that mixes in with the excitement to create something vomit and anger inducing, because Jack?

Jack is always. No matter what, _he’s always sure._

He’s distracted by hands rubbing down his sides, settling on his hips, and Jack is taken back—when did the siren get so close to him? Said siren is staring into his eyes, smoky smile on his face and eyes dull and empty. Fingers hook into the waistband of his pants, tugging and Jack can’t bring himself to push the siren away.

The outfit is still the same; the same black jacket with silver filigree, the same thigh-highs or stockings, and high-heels that make the siren taller than Jack by a good small bit. Lips press against his cheek and Jack is tensing up from the heat that spreads.

When he exhales in response, the siren grabs at biceps and squeezes, fingers sparking with something _off_ and Jack is—shuddering and gasping from the way his skin tingles and his body throbs. This siren can _kill him_ with a blink of an eye, and he doesn’t like that knowledge, but he’s busy with the fact that everything feels thick and good.

“Rhys.” The person says suddenly and Jack’s eyes snap to the dull ones that are shining now, glowing with something beautiful and bright and Jack feels like he’s going to be sucked right in. It takes him a while to register what the siren has actually said.

Breathy laughter escapes him, because whatever the siren is doing to him is making him feel _awfully nice_. “What?” He says airily, and the siren smiles at his response. Hands are on his hips again and it takes Jack a while to realise that he has been standing in between the siren’s legs as he sits, spread leg now, on the counter.

“My name is Rhys, Jack.” He says sweetly, kindly, and his eyes are steady on Jack’s. One hand – the robotic one – comes to stroke Jack’s cheek, thumb rubbing at his skin, under his left eye. “You’ve a nice face,” Rhys muses, index and middle tracing over Jack’s lips, “I’ll miss it.”

With that, his fingers pressing against Jack’s neck and the morning comes by too quickly, and the siren is gone and missing.

* * *

Rhys doesn’t visit him directly again after the vault is finally opened, and Jack is left trying to work on his profits and make the whole ‘spying on the vault hunters on Pandora’ thing be something worthwhile. He finally has Helios underway, and construction is going as smoothly as it can go while Tassiter’s being an awful _dick_ about it all.

He gives Jack an extravagant office, mostly because he’s the one that is actually going to be _taking over_ once Helios is built, and Jack wants to scream in frustration. John has to learn his place, and Jack wants to rip his own finely gelled hair off his god damn head because Tassiter is a _piece of shit._

Luckily, he doesn’t have to deal with the siren at all. Doesn’t have to deal with the visits from Rhys, but he still does wake up to find that all the photo frames in his flat are placed facedown and some of them are even missing photos or ripped apart.

The frames and photos with his grandmother in them are the victims of vandalism by that damn siren, but Jack doesn’t want to think about what it means.

It’s when one day he wakes up to the only photo of Angel he has being gone that Jack _finally loses his temper._ He tears his apartment apart looking for his angel, screaming and shouting at Rhys – who he doesn’t even know is _there_ or not – for taking something so important to him.

His apartment is a mess of clothes strewn everywhere, drawers on the floor and cupboard doors flung open. Broken shards litter some parts of his flat and he steps on some of them, but the pain in his feet are ignored for the importance of finding his Angel picture.

He finds it in a dusty corner somewhere, facedown, and Jack presses the photo close to his chest and calls in sick for the day.

Tassiter won’t shut up about it, because _John, you’ve wasted money on Helios and now you’re not even giving back? You ungrateful—_ and Jack isn’t looking forward to it, but he really needs to clean this mess up and he’s too freaking tired because _he hasn’t been sleeping properly again_ and his insomnia is catching up to him finally.

Hunched over the photo of Angel, Jack’s eyes slip shut against his will and he’s entering sleep with glass or whatever in his foot and aching eyes.

In two hours or more, he wakes up to his entire flat clean and pristine and the Angel photo sitting pretty next to the picture of his wife, and the ache that spreads in his chest makes Jack want to punch someone.

* * *

He stumbles back into his flat, on shaky legs and shakier vision, because someone had a birthday today and everyone celebrates with drinks – far more drinks than they need, because everyone _hates_ Tassiter and any excuse to drink is as good as any.

Rhys is there, sitting on his sofa like he owns the place. He can see him from a kilometre away with the blue tattoos that glow and shimmer again, but Jack can’t seem to care right now. He stumbles over to the inviting looking man and ends up falling down on their lap, hands grasping at his shoulders and Jack presses his forehead against Rhys’s.

In response, Rhys rests his hands on Jack’s back and rubs soothing circles. “You look like you had a nice night out,” Rhys coos, patronising, and Jack wants to punch him for how condescending he sounds, “you celebrating the discovery of the Destroyer?”

Jack tenses up at Rhys’s words and backs away, eyes wide as he stares into Rhys’s. “Howdd’jyu kno’?” Jack slurs and, shit, his stomach is heavy and gurgling and Rhys is just watching him, carefully. He doesn’t answer him and only places his flesh hand on Jack’s stomach, rubs it as though he can calm the bile that wants to rise, and Jack is _dizzy._

“No vomiting, Jack, no vomiting.” There is a slight edge of panic in his voice as he says that, but Jack barely picks up on it and he’s just glaring down at Rhys. He pushes Jack away, off of him, and Jack ends up parting from him easily because it’s— _it’s hard to fight back_ when his entire body is heavy with alcohol.

“Nev’r fu… freeeekin’ told me why’djyu vijhit.” He forces the words out like he’s talking through tar, and Rhys is just looking at him with something glimmering in his eyes. “Nnggnn… ooohh…” he grabs at his head and the world is spinning and a hand grabs at his chin, makes him look up, and Rhys is staring down at him.

For some reason, Jack isn’t higher up anymore. Huh. He wonders why.

Rhys brushes aside the stray strand of hair from Jack’s face and he leans close, pressing a kiss to the tip of Jack’s nose. “I’ll make you forget everything, Handsome.”

Jack laughs.

Morning comes immediately after that, and Jack doesn’t even have a headache.

* * *

Helios is mostly finished when Jack calls for his vault hunters, and he’s driven out completely when Dahl rushes in to try and tear everything apart.

It’s a miracle he even manages to escape when he volunteered to moonshot the hunters, and it’s—it’s a stupid idea, but he has to do it. He’s the hero, right? So—sacrifices are made. That’s what heroes _do—_ sacrifice. They sacrifice so many things all the time, so what is this compared to the greatness of the vault and how it can help Pandora?

There are so many great things that can be done, and if he dies then Angel can do it for him, because she knows what Jack wants to do and he _knows,_ he knows that his baby girl only has the best of Pandora’s interest in mind.

Even when she looks so tired, doesn’t sleep as much because she got it from her dad, she looks at Jack with a quiet understanding and _something else burning_ that Jack doesn’t recognise.

But with the way things are going right now, he can’t visit her right now and he has nothing but the vastness of space and everything else to be his company.

That is, until he manages to seclude himself and hide and arms wrap around him from behind; one glowing with familiar tattoos, and the other full metal. A warm body presses up against him, strokes over his injuries and hums softly.

Gentle kisses are pressed to his skin from where they can reach, and Jack is too exhausted from the fight to try and push the siren away. “S’not fun, is it?” Rhys begins casually, and Jack wants to turn around and _punch him_ or shoot him or something, because Rhys is being a freaking asshole right now.

At least, he is to Jack. He has been having a rough, rough time. He tries to turn around to glare at Rhys, but the siren holds him in place easily and his fingers are running up and down Jack’s thighs. “How the _hell_ did you get here? _How did they not see you?_ God damn it, why can’t I ever have a conversation with you that isn’t just _questions and answers that I’ll never get._ ”

“Maybe you should ask better questions then.” Rhys murmurs, the man nuzzling him from behind, and Jack is—

Well, frustrated is probably an understatement for how Rhys is making him feel right now. His hand grazes over his crotch and Jack jolts when Rhys grabs at him, rubs him through the coarse and painful material of his jeans, and Rhys is laughing in surprise. “No underwear?” His voice is sweet to Jack’s ears at that very moment, and he lets himself be washed away by the emotions that seem to _drown him._

* * *

Things are not going okay. Things are going pretty badly. Things are not looking up _fucking Jack._

No, _things are going downhill really fucking quickly and Jack has to deal with all this shit alone and great! Great, Tassiter’s not leaving him the **fuck** alone _and he can **_hear_** his vault hunters responding to Tassiter’s allegations that he can fire Jack with barely any enthusiasm and belief in Tassiter’s words.

It’s great, really, that the six people he has hired can at least recognise that Tassiter is full of _so much god damn shit_ but this? This is not how he wants things to go, and he really, really fucking hates Zarpedon—

Crap, he’s starting to lose control of his language, and he doesn’t need that. He runs his hand through his sweaty hair and winces, because now he’s going to have to fix himself up to look presentable [because he _has_ to; the hero doesn’t look _bad_ ever].

He really needs something—someone to do, and he’s in his office right now and the vault hunters have said that they aren’t going to return for another few hours, because they know themselves well enough and they are filling their plates up with shit to do.

They all have time, and Jack has time, and he falls onto the uncomfortable, small, dinky ass chair that is his temporary office chair before Tassiter is going to try and take Helios for his own. Because the dick would try and do something like that without even considering the consequences of what will happen to Jack.

He’ll probably try to do that after he fires him, that piece of _fuuuu—frrreaking_ shit. He breathes in and out heavily, wishes he had something in his system to make everything just _go away_ for a bit—

And someone joins him on his chair, legs on either side of his own and Jack doesn’t even have to open his eyes to see who it is. Soft lips press against his own, tongue urging Jack to open his mouth and let the other in—

Startling enough, Rhys tastes _lively._ He doesn’t even know what that means, but he just knows that his body is arching and he wants to taste more of Rhys. Jack’s eyes open and he buries his hands in Rhys’s hair, tugs at his nicely gelled hair harshly and rubs his tongue against Rhys’s.

His vision is blurring and he doesn’t know why, but he knows that every single cell of his body seems to be _burning_ with energy. Gasping against Rhys’s mouth, Jack lets the power and energy grip him tightly and dictate his actions-

Almost like some sort of animal, and that thought wakes him up slowly but then Rhys backs away and his eyes are sharp and his smile a shark’s, showing off perfect rows of teeth and charisma, and he presses a kiss to Jack’s chin.

“Do you really wanna stop _now?_ ” Rhys asks, and brings him back up for another kiss.

* * *

Something in him breaks. His anger is on full force and he’s screaming at the vault hunters, hears the flinch in his doppelganger’s voice as he gets really demanding, hears the scoffs in everyone else’s, and Jack thinks he wants to tear all his hunters’ a new one because _have they ever lost something as important as the Eye?_

No? _No? **No?**_

THEN HE DOESN’T **_GIVE A DAMN._**

Calm—calm, calm—he reminds himself, runs his hands through his hair and tries to breathe and relax, but every vein in his body is alight with fire, burning and bright and threatening to scar him from the inside.

“Rhys,” Jack calls out, but no one answers him, and he’s left to get rid of the curling hatred on his own. In his office now, with shaky hands and hot, rushing blood, he ends up locking the doors to tend to himself while his vault hunters did _whatever._ He hears the clacking of heels, but there’s no one around but smokes and glows and Jack groans.

Seems like logic is escaping him now, because everything is glowing and alight, and he’s shaking as smoke curls around him and presses to his lips, wraps around his aching need and makes the fire in his body hotter and hotter and _hotter._

He rides high on the feeling, not sure where it’s coming from, but something presses against his gaping mouth and blows the smoke into his mouth; it curls in his stomach and Jack’s eyes are unfocused and glazed over.

At some point, a warbled interpretation of a human body flickers in front of his vision, and fingers – metallic and flesh – stroke over his cheeks and actual lips presses against his own. Rhys— _Rhys_ is actually here, and he feels cool to the touch in comparison to Jack’s body that burns and burns and burns.

When Rhys presses his tongue into Jack’s mouth, rubs and explores, he feels heavy and dizzy again. His stomach is tied in knots and Jack’s hands are grasping Rhys’s thighs, fingers trying to bruise him through his socks or whatever.

“I think,” Rhys says with a breathy laugh, and Jack _thinks_ he sees red spread across Rhys’s pretty face, “this is the first time you’ve called me up.” All Jack can do is exhale heavily in response, his mouth slack and open, and Rhys’s lips spread into a crooked smile. He cups Jack’s face, the tip of his nose pressing against Jack’s, and he coos. “Let me help you feel better, Jack.”

And he does. He lets Rhys do whatever the hell he wants to do before the vault hunters are reporting back to him for more of the bullshit that Jack has been running circles around, and he thinks he’s grateful for the distraction.

His head is heavy the entire day.

* * *

_Everything_ makes Jack twitch, _everything_ makes him want to shoot something or strangle someone. Tassiter doesn’t talk to him after his outburst, remains quiet about everything, and Jack just _doesn’t care._ He really _doesn’t give a shit._

So many things are going wrong, so _many_ , and all Jack wants to do is carve Lilith up until there’s nothing left of her. Wants to cut out her tattoos and shove _something_ else into the emptiness of her tattoos, but Jack can’t do that now, can he? Because that is a bad idea, an awful, awful idea, but he wants to _see_ her die.

Wants to see all that ego and sass ooze out of her, drip to the floor and form _pools_ with her blood. He clenches his hands into fists, fingers digging into his palms tightly, and he’s shaking and focused on the fact that it’s so close, so close, so close—

First, they’ll get to the vault and get everything they need to fix up the mess that Moxxi, Roland and Lilith created. They’ll see what’s inside, what it is that Zarpedon died trying to protect, and then he’ll probably answer all the freaking questions that have been plaguing him.

Then, then he can do _everything_ he wants. He’ll hire Wilhelm, because he likes his ah… methods, keep Nisha close because _she’s everything he wants and everything he wants to be,_ send Aurelia back to wherever, kill Claptrap, and probably hire Athena. With Timothy—

Oh Timothy, poor little thing.

He signed it all away.

* * *

Jack is going to—going to—no, no no no no, killing _Lilith_ is too kind to her, **_no._** He wants to take and take and take from her until she has nothing else to give, because the Sentinel’s treasure is **_gone._**

**_Gone. Gone. Because of Lilith._ **

But at least he has the knowledge of the vault before Lilith had her fun. He knows everything he needs to know, and he’s—

Tassiter’s cries and gurgles of pain bring him back down to reality and Jack stares down at him as he struggles; an awful grin is spread on Jack’s lips and his eyes are wide as they meet Tassiter’s bulging ones. The man dies with a pitiful gurgle and Jack is actually using his name now—

None of that John bullshit; he’s Jack. _Handsome Jack._ He isn’t going to accept _any_ bullshit; those days? Those days are loooooong gone, and Jack isn’t going to let them come crawling back any time soon. Oh no, John is dead.

Probably has been for a long time now, and Jack exhales as he sits up and tilts his head back. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing in and out deeply, and everything is calm inside of him for a moment—

Until he smells and feels curling smoke and feels someone’s foot nudge at him, and he opens his eyes to see Rhys sitting on his desk all pretty, all nice and obedient for him.

The jacket is gone and the single-sleeve shirt of his leaves his tattoos on display for Jack, a deep dark blue that is different from the pale, dying blue of Lilith’s. He knows now that Rhys’s socks are thigh-highs, and that they brush under his shorts _just barely._

His heeled boots are golden-toed, and Jack grin spreads even wider. He stands up and grabs Rhys’s hips, presses against him and Rhys strokes over the symbol hidden beneath his mask with his metallic thumb. “I miss your face already,” Rhys says, monotone, and Jack doesn’t hold back his laugh. Immediately, he buries his face in Rhys’s neck and bites down, harder, wanting to break skin and make him _bleed._

Rhys encourages him, wraps around him and lets Jack manhandle him like he’s some sort of product. Allows Jack to slam him around, his grip too harsh and his lips demanding a lot, and yet Rhys is the one that presses his tongue in and commands the kiss.

The tattoos glow ever so slightly, barely distracting, and Jack is shuddering and gasping as something _oozes_ through his veins.

“Ohhhoo _cupcake,_ ” Jack begins after he breaks the kiss off, his voice hot, heavy and sharp, “whatever it is that you’re doing? I _approve._ Good boy, good _freakin’_ boy; won’t do anything dumb like Lilith now, would you?”

Rhys shushes him, pats at his mouth and runs his hands through his hair. “Don’t talk about it,” Rhys’s voice is satin-wrapped poison that makes his head spin, “lemme distract you. Make it _better._ Celebrate Tassiter, Jack.”

A toothy grin spreads across Jack’s face. “Pumpkin, _you just know how to push my buttons.”_

The smile Rhys gives him before he goes back to kiss him, to drown in him, is slipping out smoke and ringing hollow, but Jack’s teeth are digging into his lower lip and he doesn’t think about that smile and what it means.

Rhys doesn’t visit anymore after that, and Jack doesn’t think much about it.

He doesn’t expect Rhys to ever come back again, and he busies himself with precautions and Hyperion and _more_ because there is so, so much he has to do before he can scorch Pandora anew.

So Jack doesn’t think about Rhys anymore, and Rhys never comes back.

[Except he does, and he doesn’t know Jack, and Jack doesn’t know him.]


End file.
